


ice

by cdra



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Burnplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdra/pseuds/cdra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small drabble collection of Saruhiko being sadomasochistic garbage. And very much obsessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tie my feet

**Author's Note:**

> this file is called "trash child trash test"

Filthy.  Of course the act itself is, but the things in his head are all the more so—but Saruhiko is, as well, a completely filthy and worthless person, so it’s no real surprise that he’s envisioning someone simple and pure (and childish and stupid) in such disgusting and lewd images as he grasps himself, hissing through clenched teeth as he rubs his thumb along his shaft.  His eyes are clouded over; he releases a shaky sigh, relaxing, growing accustomed to the sensation a bit.

Did he realize how much he  _ needs  _ that person’s existence the first time he caught himself doing this, wondering what it’d be like if it were  _ him _ touching him like this or repeating  _ his _ name in his mind like a mantra or imagining the kinds of sounds  _ he _ might make—?  No, it was long before that, he thinks, or maybe long after—or maybe it’s just been true for far too long for something like when it  _ began _ to matter at all.  It’s been this insidious thing lurking inside him for so long that he can’t even remember what living felt like before it.

Or, maybe he just wasn’t alive before it—maybe he still isn’t, actually.

Saruhiko presses his nails into his side as though to break up those thoughts, biting his lip against the discomfort—if he must indulge this disgusting physicality of his, then he might as well do so entirely, without letting his most loathsome (if they’re even  _ that _ ) parts interfere.  Instead, he’ll focus on the pain as well as the pleasure, the visceral sensations that are so strangely hard to understand; he gasps as his fingertips dig tighter into his waist and begin to burn red, such a sickening color, but it  _ reminds  _ him.  If  _ he _ could do that— _ hate him enough _ to do that—ahh, yes,  _ there  _ are the thoughts he was looking for.

More voiceless sounds fall into the dull air as he strokes himself, letting his imagination trail off into more disgusting places—pushing him down, battered and beaten, to taste his wounds—his angry face, starting to tear up (he’s such a child, so weak), as he fights back--the warmth (no, the absolute  _ heat _ ) of them touching, burning back like fire—the fire they  _ share _ , if it could only be called something like that.  But mostly, it’s  _ his  _ eyes completely fixed on this body, on him— _ his  _ entire attention, entire  _ being  _ burning at the single point of their intersection—

A loud click of his tongue disguises what perhaps should have been a groan of pleasure as he tenses, caught off guard by his own body—filthy, disgusting, the proof of it coats the hand he’s regarding only with frozen blue eyes.  Cold—yes, he’s freezing cold, despite the heat of the red lingering on his other hand, which absently moves to scratch his collar.  But even if he hadn’t always been this cold, this icy, then he’d have still become it in order to be everything that some passionate red flame  _ despised _ , if that’s what it would take.

Well, now it’s left to him to clean himself up and continue on, still frozen in place by the twisted tie he’s formed.


	2. cut me down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: "this fucking masochist"

As he's thrown down he laughs--does that  _ sicken  _ him, the fact that he's laughing as Misaki throws him down with a real intent to harm, the fact that even as the awful  _ crack  _ of his head against pavement resounds, Saruhiko is still grinning?  If it does, that'd be good--if he becomes completely overrun with hatred, that'd be fine.

Ah, but that doesn't mean he'll stop fighting--not until he's  _ completely  _ destroyed (--is that what he  _ wants _ ?).  He struggles, thrashes his torso as his arms are pinned (how inconvenient--but not a problem, considering the  _ power  _ he has)--he's  _ playing _ , still, just trying to test how serious this keen attack of Misaki’s is (serious enough to take him down, which is more than impressive, really), even though he knows there’s a certain lingering danger (his head really hurts, it’s pounding but his blood’s already burning up and pumping so hard that it hardly matters).

What a  _ lovely  _ snarl--he can’t help but give another awfully warped laugh at how close Misaki’s angry face is to his own--but as he jerks forward to hopefully crash their foreheads together he’s instead met with a searing pain in his hand and he cries out in some strangled and off-guard way as he freezes up.  His head falls back as he gasps--that kind of feeling, something seems to have become serious, but he’s fine with that, it just hurts more than he was expecting, but he doesn’t mind that--and wild blue eyes roll to the side to find one of his own blades embedded in his hand.

How unexpectedly violent!  He almost wants to say that, but now’s no longer the time for teasing--they’re embroiled in this moment, and so they shall remain for as long as it doesn’t fizzle out.  Yes, he doesn’t need to comment on it with mocking words; the way that he screams somewhere between pleasure and pain and amusement as red fire blazes down his opened bloodstream is enough testament to how much further this has already gone than he could have possibly hoped.


	3. make me live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filename: "also this fucking sadist. this fucking sadomasochist"

If he could carve his name into this bit of unmarked flesh, perhaps he should do that instead; perhaps if he is to lay claim to this body as he so wants to, then he may as well do it in such a way that it’s unmistakable.  But so long as they two know the meaning of it--isn’t that well and good enough?  Thinking something like that, his fingers tense around the bloody knife in his precious person’s thigh, dragging it down to make more crimson spill out (as though maybe he could bleed  _ that  _ red out of his system, too).

There’s an undeniable rush at the way his voice cracks and squeaks--the hair on the back of Saruhiko’s neck raises up, lips spreading into a wide grin out of sync with his eyes becoming wide.  If he’s going to cry--then it should only be because of what  _ he’s _ doing, shouldn’t it?  And indeed, there are tears welling up in Misaki’s hazel eyes, which are so fearfully and completely wide-open to watch the moment unfold as he pants and gasps--it’s really a nice expression, he thinks, caught up in their little world as it is, on the verge of breaking.

He chuckles, takes a moment to press Misaki’s legs apart and force himself in between, licking his lips before he presses his tongue to the red line trailing from the wound he created; he can think of far worse tastes than blood, the metallic essence of  _ living flesh _ , one of the few things in this world that still holds his interest.  The body under him shudders, something like discomfort or shock or disgust or perhaps even outright pain; slowly, his tongue curls back into his mouth and he swallows before turning his wild gaze from the knife to that wonderful expression again.

“What a good face--you’ll show me  _ more _ , right,  _ Mi-sa-ki _ ~?” with no shortage of mocking on the way he nearly  _ sings  _ that name (he  _ loves  _ saying it, it can’t be helped), Saruhiko notices the edge of hysteric laughter that’s taken his voice, but it’s only a factor of the awful burst of  _ excitement _ rushing through him--in such a moment, even  _ he  _ can’t claim command of such overflowing emotions, too many and too twisted for even  _ him  _ to bother understanding.

He rips the blade out and revels in the choked sputter Misaki gives, in the rapidly increasing saturation of crimson on green fabric--he’s panting as well, for reasons that can only be described as quite  _ different _ , breaths caught on shaky laughs as he drinks in the scene with absolute greed, like he’s been  _ dying  _ without it and now,  _ now _ , he’s coming to life because of it.


End file.
